Upon A Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(7)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Although she hated to admit it, Mary was right. The cool air invigorated her as the snow lightly fell around her, and absolute silence was her company — well, silence and the sound of birds singing and flying through the sky. How could everything around her seem so peaceful when war raged within her and her family?

The curse — it had caused all of this. And there was no way out, at least not according to her mother and two sisters.

So, she was not sent to Sussex for holiday. She was sent here to die. Away from her family, in hopes that the spell would lift once Rosalind paid the price of denying the demands of the family curse. Her sisters had argued against it, but it seemed her mother was slowly going mad since her father’s death. In a way, Rosalind was the sacrifice her mother was all too willing to make in order to rid the family of the generational hex.

Was it really so wrong of her to want to marry for love? Had she known that decision would have cost her father his life, she would have run down the aisle, dragging that Nordic god kicking and screaming if need be.

But all hope was lost. It was the beginning of December, and if her mother’s madness were any indication, the curse would lift only if Rosalind married before the end of the year. And not just to anyone. No, it had to be one of the late duke’s sons. Last she heard, the youngest was ill with some sort of deadly disease, and the second oldest was utterly ruined. Rosalind’s own mother wouldn’t let her speak of him, let alone marry him, even if it meant the end of the curse. According to her mother, it would be better to die than be tied to such a man.

Leaving only the current Duke of Montmouth, Stefan. The rogue. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the warmth of his skin, and smell the spices on his jacket as he carried her through the thick night air.

Shuddering, she pushed the thought away. Surely, he had already found a more suitable bride. Looking around, she let out a large sigh. Nobody in sight.

It was safe to say that any sort of marriage for Rosalind was an impossibility. Not that it mattered, for the tonics had stopped working, her sickness was getting worse. Though nobody could explain it, the spells were less frequent but when they happened Rosalind had little control over her body in those times. What man would want to marry someone who was struck with sleeping spells? It seemed the only time she could sleep was when the spells hit her. To make matters worse, she had started to become somewhat of an insomniac at night, finally resorting to a family recipe for tea that was said to help her relax, though for some reason the recipe was safeguarded by the staff in London. She had sent a missive earlier in the week to obtain the recipe.

Lost in thought, she kicked her heels into Duke who bolted forward, sending her hat flying. Her hair, now released from the confines of its pins, spread wildly about her shoulders. Long locks of red whipped down her back as she galloped, small tendrils brushed across her cheek as the cold air stung her face. Laughter bubbled out of her as she urged Duke to go faster and faster.

"Ho." Pulling back on the reigns, she brought the horse to an abrupt stop at her favorite creek and jumped off. "Good boy, you liked that didn’t you?" Duke neighed in response, his head bobbed up and down. She pulled an apple out of her satchel and shared it with him.

Humming, she closed her eyes. Allowing her daydreams to take hold. Her dreams were all she had, for she was plagued by them. She was constantly falling asleep. The spells would never last a long time, but dreams always accompanied them. Ones with dancing and laughter, bright colors and teasing. And always his face. It was the only face she continued to remember after she tried so hard to forget.

And always in her dreams, he would pick her up in his arms and carry her to the dance floor. Wrapping his large arms around her, he would dance and dance. The music never ended. And Rosalind would laugh in his arms, relishing the feel of his strength. Admiring the beauty of his perfectly sculpted face.

Lost in her fantasy, Rosalind curtsied, held out her hand, and began twirling in circles. Flurries of snow swirled about her feet as she flew around and around. She hummed and then began singing.

"Do you hear that, Samson?" Stefan slowed his horse to a walk as he listened to the air. A voice echoed through the skies. Though soft, it was so blasted alluring that for a moment, Stefan wondered if his mother’s madness had caught up to him. Who would be out in this weather? And singing, nonetheless? Blindly, he led his horse in the direction of the heavenly music. As if sensing his urgency, Samsun trotted through the trees with ease, until they came up to a tiny creek.

"Hmm," Stefan said aloud. "Well, we’ll just have to cross it. What do ya say, old boy? You up to it?"

The horse neighed in response. Carefully, Stefan guided the horse across the small stream. When they reached the other side, he dismounted and led Samson through the thick brush of trees.

"Have I found you? The one who makes me sing? Once upon a midnight dream…"

The voice haunted him, chilled him to his core, for he couldn’t help but selfishly want this song to be about him. And the voice behind it. So clear, perfect. An angel from heaven.

Shocked about his physical reaction to something so simple, he cursed himself and moved closer towards the voice.

"As I lay me down to sleep, my midnight dream I know will keep. The stars in your eyes tell me what your heart is afraid to say. That while I wait for my prince, he will one day say…"

What urgency possessed him, Stefan did not know. All he knew was he needed to see the identity of this person. For his own sanity, he needed one glimpse. Starved, abandoning all sense, he finally reached the clearing. And swore.

It was her.

Lady Rosalind, dancing in reckless abandon, sans any sort of head covering. Her glorious red hair dangled past her waist. Her arms were held high above her head as she twirled and sang.

Stefan felt as if someone had punched him, and then added a heavy kick for good measure. Air, it seemed, whooshed out of his lungs; it was suddenly hard to breathe and difficult for him to do anything except stare, slack-jawed, at the most beautiful sight his eyes ever had the opportunity to behold.

Closer — his body demanded he draw closer. He inched forward and motioned for Samson to be quiet. So maybe he was a trifle mad. He hadn’t been on that forsaken island that long; he knew horses could not speak. But he gave the signal, nonetheless, and dash it if that horse didn’t seem to be tiptoeing just as Stefan was.

At the clearing, he stood only a few feet from her. A nervous chill ran down his spine as he fell into the hypnotic trance of her swaying hips. And then she curtsied. As if some other gentleman was dancing with her. Jealous rage poured out of him until he realized she was bowing to her horse.